


over our spoken words the words unspoken

by thetimemoves (WriteOut)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, First Kiss, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Not Canon Compliant, Pining, Solstice, Winter Solstice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21553423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteOut/pseuds/thetimemoves
Summary: Over our spoken words the words unspokenShouted like trumpets, and like violinsWere the deep after-tones that circled round us.Now a new year begins!Solstice, Josephine Johnson (1936)***On the longest night of the year, John finds his words and takes a chance.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 44
Kudos: 146
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2019, Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul





	over our spoken words the words unspoken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nottoolateforthegame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nottoolateforthegame/gifts).



> Happy Holmestice! 
> 
> This story takes place a few days before Sherlock and John's infamous Christmas party in ASiB. I took canon, tossed it into a blender, and came up with this. 
> 
> I am eternally grateful to magnetic_pole for the beta work and to DiscordantWords (and my friends on DW) for the much-needed encouragement.

John came out of the kitchen, a cup of tea in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. He dodged a giggly Mrs Hudson as she wrapped a large sprig of mistletoe with a bright red ribbon. He paused for a moment to take in the sparkling fairy lights and evergreen garlands he and Mrs Hudson just finished hanging in the living room. Although the fire he lit earlier was dying, it lent a cosy air to the cluttered flat along with the carols that played softly on the old radio. Christmastime had come to Baker Street and preparations were well underway for the small gathering he and Sherlock planned to host for their friends in a few days’ time. It was shaping up to be lovely, quite lovely indeed, thought John as he surveyed his little domain. This was the first real Christmas-with-all-of-the-fixings he’d had in years; sure, the Army did its best to boost spirits during the holidays but it couldn’t replace the comforts of home for most of his fellow soldiers, and last December—his first back in London after being invalided out—was too grim to speak of. His life had changed profoundly over the past year and he wanted to mark it somehow. A party seemed apt.

“Cheers, Mrs H!” John handed the wine to Mrs Hudson and received a bright smile in return. She tucked the glass away and continued working on her mistletoe while humming along with the music.

Most of holiday trimmings were from Mrs Hudson. Any favorite ornaments from his own childhood were with Harry and that was one Pandora’s Box he wasn’t brave enough to open. Sherlock would likely rather hang a string of toes than tinsel, so John was happy to take advantage of their landlady’s generosity. John did brave the shops the day before for more lights and he couldn’t resist stockings to hang from the mantle. One each for himself, Sherlock, Mrs Hudson, and Billy the skull. John’s little found family. John couldn’t wait for Sherlock’s expression when he saw Billy’s. Sherlock himself couldn’t be bothered to help clean and decorate and he left the flat hours ago, presumably on a case or off to the morgue to harass Molly for body parts. He did promise them both, albeit reluctantly, to be at the party and to play their favorite carols on his violin. To Mrs Hudson’s deep disappointment, however, he adamantly refused to wear the antlers. John thought he might try to persuade him otherwise and smiled at the thought.

“John, dear, a little help? I don’t dare stand on the chair. My hip, you know.” Mrs Hudson tapped said hip and held out her wrapped mistletoe. “Will you hang this up for me? Right there will do.” She pointed to the top of the kitchen doorway.

“Just a mo.” John set the teacup down on the coffee table in front of Jeannette, who was sitting on the couch. She arrived early for their dinner date and was being plied with biscuits and tea while she waited for John to finish. John wished Sherlock was there too. To help, yes (he wouldn’t need a chair to string lights, the lanky bastard), but mostly just to _be_ there. He liked being with Sherlock, very much, and felt his absence keenly, even when it was warranted. He also knew that Sherlock and Jeanette—or really, any of the few women John brought round to the flat—were like oil and water. Sherlock’s absence was for the best, as his last encounter with Jeanette illustrated.

*

_John ushered Jeanette into the flat and took a quick look for his flatmate. Sherlock was in his chair and apparently in deep conversation with his violin. He paused for a moment when the door opened and then resumed his serious chat with the strings._

_John couldn’t help but grin, but the smile dropped from his face when he felt Jeanette tense up next to him. He cleared his throat. “Sherlock, I’m sure you remember—“_

_"Sarah! Yes, hello.” Sherlock popped up out of his chair and moved over to where John and Jeanette stood._

_Jeanette opened her mouth, but John jumped in before she could say anything. “No, no, he’s not good with names.”_

_Sherlock waved his bow. “No, no, no, I can get this!”_

_Jeanette folded her arms and stared at Sherlock. She did not smile back._

_“No, Sarah was the doctor. Then there was the one with the spots…and then the one with the nose. And then…. who was after the boring teacher?”_

_“Nobody.”_

_“Ah, Jeanette!” He gestured dramatically with the bow. “Process of elimination.” He did one of his patented whole-face creepy grins, all wrinkles and no sincerity._

_John rolled his eyes and wrapped an arm around Jeanette. “Um, good. Glad to get that sorted. Let’s go, shall we?” He steered her back towards the door, but not before shooting Sherlock a death glare. Just as he turned back to Jeanette, he saw a smirk on Sherlock’s face. He told himself he’d deal with that later._

*

He never did bring it up, John realized. As always, Sherlock managed to distract him in one way or the other. He still wondered about that smirk, though.

Sherlock, possessive of John’s time and attention from the very beginning, had become more so ever since Moriarty spirited John away and strapped a bomb to his chest. He was even worse when John was in a relationship, brief as they were, or when John sought one out. Sherlock was barely tolerant of Sarah and he liked her, he confessed to John one night after too many glasses of wine. She had proved herself with smarts and courage and he admired her chutzpah during the Blind Banker case. Sarah was the last one to meet with his begrudging approval, however; Sherlock’s jealousy over John’s attentions elsewhere translated into escalating nastiness.

John could only point so many fingers. His own behavior towards anyone who attracted Sherlock’s intense focus—criminal or otherwise—was usually less than admirable. He seethed over Sherlock’s obsession with Moriarty, although he sensed a sea change ever since the pool, and just the thought of Irene Adler made John see red. It was ridiculous. They were both deliberately antagonistic, and a part of John thought he might have an inkling why. Did Sherlock, though? And really, it wasn’t like John had room to complain. He liked being the focus of Sherlock’s attention and didn’t want to share it with anyone else either.

John finished fastening the mistletoe to Mrs Hudson’s satisfaction and gave it a slight tug to ensure it would stay in place. “All set, Mrs Hudson. Be careful who you meet under here.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

She giggled again and swatted at him as he went to join Jeanette on the couch. “Saucy boy.”

He picked up a biscuit and turned to Jeanette. “I think we’re almost done here. Are you— “

On the table, John’s phone rang out and startled them both. He glanced down and saw Mycroft Holmes’s name pop up on the screen. Damn it. He thought for a split second about ignoring the call. He knew it would be at his own peril, however, so he grabbed his phone and swiped to answer.

“Mycroft. It’s always a good time when you call. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, doctor.”

John sighed. “Just tell me what you want. What disaster has befallen now?”

“I am merely giving you advance warning that my brother has met with slight misadventure while out pursuing one of his little cases. He is making his way back to Baker Street and should arrive within the hour in a less than affable state of mind.”

“Injured? What do you mean, injured? What happened?” John looked up at Mrs Hudson, who was picking through a box of ornaments. She immediately set the box aside and frowned. 

“Nothing serious, mind you. Nothing proper back up wouldn’t have prevented either, if I might point out.”

“Don’t start with me, Mycroft Holmes. What. Happened.” 

“What do you think happened, John? He opened his mouth, and someone took offense. He tracked a suspect to some ghastly corner of Barking and put his nose in where it did not belong. He was shown out the door, quite literally.”

“Why aren’t you fetching him and going to A&E?”

“You know as well as I that he would refuse. At any rate, I don’t believe that’s necessary. His injuries appear minor. You know how head wounds bleed.”

Good Christ. John shook his head even though Mycroft couldn’t see him. He stood and moved over to the fireplace. “You know I can’t be everywhere at once. I’ve got plans tonight, Mycroft. In fact, my plans are already here at Baker Street, sitting on the couch and waiting for me.” John’s back was to Jeanette, but he could feel her stare burning a hole in the back of his head.

Mycroft ignored that and continued. “As I said, he does not seem badly hurt. You know I would step in otherwise, John. He will need your assistance when he arrives home, however.”

“If it’s not serious, he can take care of it himself.” John rubbed his face, torn between frustration and worry.

“I do believe your attentions are best focused on the domestic front tonight. Sherlock has been increasingly distracted as of late and making more foolish decisions than usual.”

“And this is my responsibility how? Just what are you implying, Mycroft Holmes?”

“You have to stay with him, John.”

“I’ve got plans.”

“No.” The line went dead.

“Mycroft-” John moved his mobile away from him face and glared at it. “Fucking Mycroft,” he muttered. Mrs Hudson tutted.

John drew in a deep breath, braced himself, and turned back around to face Jeanette. Her lips were pursed, as if she knew what he was about to say. Well, she did. It wouldn’t be the first time their plans were dashed because of one Sherlock Holmes, but he had a sinking feeling it would be the last.

He moved back to the couch and sat on the opposite end, about as far from her as he could. He clasped his hands and tried to look contrite. “I’m sorry, I really am.”

Jeanette was quiet and looked at him for a long moment. “You know,” she said as she leaned back, “My friends are so wrong about you.”

John raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to the side. “Oh really?” He smiled uneasily, not sure he wanted to hear the rest.

“You’re a _great_ boyfriend.”

Oh.

“Okay, that’s good. I mean, I always thought I was great.” John noticed that Jeanette’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. Not good.

“And Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man.” She looked down at her watch and gathered her coat before standing up.

 _Oh_. Fuck.

“Jeanette, please.”

“No, I mean it. It’s heart-warming. You’ll do anything for him, and he can’t even tell your girlfriends apart. When we first met, he thought I was the one with the spots. Spots, John!” She stood and yanked on her coat.

“No, I’ll do anything for you. Just tell me what it is I’m not doing. Tell me!” He stood and followed her to the doorway. Deep down he knew he was protesting more out of some vain attempt to preserve his dignity than anything else.

“Don’t make me compete with Sherlock Holmes. That’s a battle I can’t win.” She looked him up and down. “I’m not sure anyone can.”

John swallowed hard and dug in. “I’ll walk your dog for you. Hey, I’ve said it now. I’ll even walk your dog.”

“I don’t have a dog!”

“No, because that was…the last one. Okay.”

“Jesus!”

“I’ll call you.”

“No!”

“Okay.”

John watched as Jeanette angrily buttoned up her coat. God, but she was gorgeous in her fury. Striking, really. Her long dark hair piled on top of her head, her long dark coat over her tall slim body gave him déjà vu and an image of Sherlock flickered in his mind. Double fuck. Jeanette threw one more disgusted look his way before stomping out the door and down the stairs. He stood there, head cocked, until he heard the front door slam and then he turned and went to the window. It was almost full dark out and a light snow was falling. He watched Jeanette fling out her arm and hail a cab, which stopped immediately.

“That really wasn’t very good, was it?” said a voice behind him.

“Don’t start, Mrs Hudson.”

She gathered up Jeanette’s cup and the plate of biscuits. “Oh John, these things happen. Although, poor dear, they seem to happen a lot. You’ve not had the best luck with your women, have you?”

He didn’t respond, just continued to look out the window. Between the snow and the dark, he could barely make out the cab as it reached the end of the street. It was too early to be this dark, wasn’t it? He checked his watch. Only 4 pm.

He wondered how close Sherlock was to Baker Street. He would check him out, patch him up as needed, and maybe they could watch a movie together. He couldn’t remember the last night they had in together that didn’t end in an argument or with someone storming out of the flat. Months of tension over Moriarty, and now Irene Adler, were taking their toll on them both. Sherlock was increasingly snappish and cruel, and John’s temper got the best of him too often. They were wearing each other down to sharp edges and it was untenable. Maybe a quiet night in front of the fire would help them reconnect. He felt as if they were constantly teetering on the edge of a cliff. Maybe they finally needed to fall over.

“Do you know, John, that tonight is the winter solstice?”

“Hmmm?”

“It’s the longest night of the year. A good night for reflection.” She hummed pointedly.

John finally tore his gaze from the window. He sat down in his chair and rested his chin in his hand. He wasn’t upset about being dumped, other than a slight bruising of his ego. True, Jeanette was gorgeous, smart, and had a wicked sense of humour. Most importantly, she was available and willing. All qualities he found attractive. His own availability was the issue. It always was. Mrs Hudson was right; his luck with women went south as soon as he moved into Baker Street. At the end of the day, Jeanette wasn’t Sherlock. Sherlock came first, always. John was absolutely fine with that and wasn’t that something to ponder.

He was beginning to understand…or, to be truly honest with himself, accept why he was not distraught over Jeanette or any of his failed relationships since he called Baker Street home. There was no denying his attraction to Sherlock. It had been there from the very start, as soon as Sherlock took one look at John in the lab, opened his mouth, and blew him away. He braved an awkward probing of Sherlock’s relationship status at Angelo’s, but Sherlock’s firm rejection was like an ice water bath. John said it was all fine, and he meant it, but afterwards and ever since, he firmly closed off that little corner of his brain. Over time, his resolve wavered. John knew Sherlock wasn’t as married to his work as he once declared, but there was nothing for it. John wasn’t remotely interested in putting Sherlock on the spot and risking further mortification himself. Sherlock was his best friend and John was grateful for that, if nothing else. But maybe…

He realized Mrs Hudson was still talking. “Sorry?”

“Winter solstice, dear. The shortest day and the longest, darkest night of the year. It marks the rebirth of the sun. Starting tomorrow, the days will be brighter. My nan always liked to turn off the lights and bring out the candles. She’d have a fire and gather us all around. We wrote our fears and worries on slips of paper and tossed them into the fire to set them free. Then she gave us all little glasses of mulled wine, a most special treat, and told us to write our hopes down next. Those we kept for ourselves, as reminders.

“Nan was always one for rituals. I think there’s a place for them, don’t you? She encouraged us to look inward and let go of the things that were holding us back from what we really wanted.”

Something in her tone made him look up at her. She had a soft smile and a knowing look on her face. “You’ve been rather tense lately, both you and Sherlock. Don’t think I can’t tell! I know my boys. Work out your nonsense and you’ll both be happier.” She placed her hand on top of his head, briefly. “I’ll go do the washing up and leave you be. I think you have a lot on your mind to sort out, yes?”

He did.

But first things first. He exhaled and stood up. Time to get a proper fire going again. Since he was staying in after all, no reason not to.

*

The fire had only just roared back into life when John heard the door open and shut downstairs. Quietly for once. Either Sherlock was being considerate of the other people in the building or he was too tired or hurt to properly slam the door and announce his arrival. John put down his book and waited. Mrs Hudson was washing up in the kitchen. The radio was still playing carols and John decided to leave the fairy lights on as well. It was calming and he needed that as his head and heart were churning.

Said calm was shattered a few minutes later when Sherlock limped into the flat, took one look at John, and snorted. “Well, your track record is intact. What is this, three girlfriends in six months? No- four?”

“Fuck off with that, Sherlock. Seriously.”

“Such language, John.” He shrugged off his coat—gingerly, John noticed—and hung it next to John’s. His dark curls were mussed and flecked with snow and his cheeks were flushed from the cold air. He was filthy and clearly on the ground at one point. His trousers were ripped in one knee and his shirtfront was smudged with what looked like oil. He was an utter wreck and a sight for sore eyes.

Sherlock glanced around the living room, peeked into the kitchen at Mrs Hudson, and then went over to examine the stockings hanging from the mantle. His mouth quirked up as he traced Billy’s stitched name with his finger. He adjusted one of the garlands over the mirror and then went to look out the window.

John watched him move about, trying to get a read on whatever injuries he might have. Whatever blood prompted Mycroft’s concern in the first place had been mostly wiped away, but John thought he saw a cut on the side of Sherlock’s forehead and his hands were scratched and speckled with what he assumed was blood. He could only imagine the state of Sherlock’s knees. He needed to get a better look, but the man was too busy flitting around the flat.

“Sit down, will you? You’re making me dizzy.”

“Which one was this, the one with the dog? Oh wait, that one dumped you in spectacular fashion outside of your office. This one managed to salvage some dignity and end things here in relative privacy. Well, there was Mrs Hudson, but she doesn’t count.” In the background, a muffled sound of indignation. “The boring teacher, then. Janice, was it? Really, John. Pathetic. Is the sex worth the constant humiliation?”

John folded his hands in his lap and squeezed them together. Hard. “That’s low, Sherlock, even for you.”

Sherlock grimaced. When he drew back his shoulders and opened his mouth, Mrs Hudson, plainly eavesdropping from the kitchen, took that moment to interrupt whatever offensive statement was next out of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Oh Sherlock, the state of you!” She wiped her hands on the apron tied around her waist and moved towards Sherlock. “Is that blood? What on earth is on your shirt?”

He held up a hand. “No fussing, please, Mrs Hudson. Maybe a cup of tea?

She looked at John and then back at Sherlock. “Just this once, dear. Mind you don’t get blood on my carpet!” she fretted as she went back into the kitchen.

John shook his head and rubbed his temple with his finger. “I had a date tonight and once again here I am and not out on it.”

Sherlock sniffed. “A date, how boring.”

“Ah, that old chestnut.”

“But it is boring! As you like to remind me many times, you’ve canceled a lot of dates. Repeating the same experiment with the same results is not efficient and points to a lack of imagination.”

“You may be right.”

That stopped Sherlock cold. “Of course, I’m right. I’m always right.” He moved in front of John’s chair and leaned down to look at him closely. “You’re agreeing with me. Why are you agreeing with me? It’s not exactly a flattering assessment of your abilities.”

The sudden invasion of his personal space made something in John’s heart clench. Sherlock still carried a slight scent of the outdoors, of the snow, but John could smell traces of his cologne and a slight tinge of sweat. He didn’t find any of it offensive. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “I’m just saying that maybe my string of bad luck means I need to rethink what I’m looking for. Maybe I need to take a chance on something different.”

“Hmmm. Well.” Sherlock opened his mouth but shut it again. He straightened up and looked away. “What does that…I mean, looking for…” His voice trailed off.

John felt a burst of affection as he watched Sherlock, not usually at a loss for words, struggle to respond.

Then Sherlock moved again, and John was instantly reminded of Mycroft and the phone call that set this entire conversation in motion.

“You’re hurt.” It was a statement, daring Sherlock to deny.

“Nothing you need concern yourself with. I’m fine.”

“Is that why you’re covered in rubbish and moving like an old man?”

“I’m fine!” Sherlock tried and failed to subtly pick something off his sleeve.

“That’s not the story I heard.”

“And what would that be?”

“Only that you opened your mouth and were tossed through a door for it.”

“Mycroft…” muttered Sherlock. “I should have known he’d poke his nose in.”

“Yes, yes, your brother is creepy. That’s long been established, but he does have his uses. Tell me, is it better you come home to me and some nagging or to an empty flat where you can suffer by yourself?”

“I’m fine, nothing to nag me about.”

“Three times now. I thought you didn’t like repeating yourself. Please, Sherlock.” John stood up. “I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me. Tell me what’s wrong, where are you hurt?”

“I was looking into a little matter for Lestrade. Just a small forgery case, nothing more than a four. I followed the suspect to his pub and when I approached him, he decided he’d rather talk with his fists. I did tell you I was going out.”

“You did, but you didn’t tell me where or why. As usual, Sherlock, you took off on your own and left me behind when I could have helped.”  
  
“You made it clear you were too busy. I wasn’t going to beg. It’s nothing serious, John. Leave me be.”

“Professional here, yeah? Let me be the judge of that. Into the kitchen with you. I want you sitting down at the table so that I can get a good look.”

“Just a few cuts and scrapes, maybe a bump or two. Stop smothering.”

John sighed. Loudly. “Knock it off. You left without me, likely knowing you were putting yourself in danger. Maybe if you told me what was going on, I would have hanged my plans and come with you. As it is, here I am anyway, and I think you’re bleeding again. Let me look at you and then you can swan off to your room or wherever you want to have a sulk.”

Mrs Hudson poked her head back into the living room. “Sherlock, your tea is ready. Let John take care of you, young man.” She untied her apron and hung it over her arm.

John mouthed a thank you to Mrs Hudson as he herded Sherlock into the kitchen. “Sit, please. I want to look at that cut on your forehead and see what you’ve done to your hands and knees.”

Sherlock hesitated but sat finally down. He tilted his head away from John and cleared his throat. “Have at it, then.”

“Oh, boys. It’s good you have each other, isn’t it?” She leaned down and gave Sherlock a kiss on his upturned cheek. “I’m done for the night and I don’t want to hear a peep out of either one of you until morning. John, I had a lovely time today. Everything looks so nice. I think you ought to show Sherlock some of the special decorations we put out.” She raised her eyebrows towards the mistletoe and winked at John, who blushed.

Sherlock’s eyes darted back and forth between them. He took a quick look at the top of the kitchen doorway and John saw his cheeks pink a bit as well. Oh, Mrs Hudson. She was evidently on a mission and John loved her for it.

“Goodnight, Mrs Hudson. Thanks again for today.” He gave his hands a good scrubbing at the sink and grabbed his kit off the counter. He placed it on the table next to Sherlock, who eyed it warily.

John was silent for a moment as he listened to Mrs Hudson go down the stairs. Once she was safely downstairs, he nodded in satisfaction and turned his attention back to Sherlock. The man might have been sitting, but he wasn’t still. John put his finger under Sherlock’s chin and lifted it back more. “Stop fidgeting, you git. I can’t get a good look with all of the wiggling.”

Sherlock stilled at John’s touch. His eyes closed and he let out a deep breath. John took advantage to gaze freely at his dear friend’s face. He hesitated, just a for moment, but then ran one of his hands through Sherlock’s messy hair. Checking for bumps, yes, but also just to establish a connection for his own comfort. It worked for Sherlock too. John could see his shoulders relax minutely. Good. Hopefully this meant he could take care of Sherlock with no further interruptions from the man.

He worked quietly for a while, wiping the cut clean and using his fingers to determine the extent of the wound. It was shallow, but as Mycroft said, head wounds tend to bleed profusely. This one just needed a good cleaning and a plaster. He bandaged the wound and stepped back to admire his handiwork. He smoothed down a corner of the plaster, telling himself it wasn’t just an excuse to keep touching Sherlock.

“Your head is fine. Let me check your hands and knees and then we can call it a night, yeah? He lifted one of Sherlock’s hands and took a cleansing wipe to it.

Sherlock hissed as the antiseptic hit an open scratch. “So, tell me, doctor. Will I live?”

“Too early to tell. That cut is manageable, but the doctor is still questionable.”

Sherlock broke and laughed. “I think I can handle the doctor.”

John smiled. “You think so?” He finished wiping the grime and blood from both hands, and gently felt each one for possible sprains or breaks. Satisfied there was nothing wrong other than some minor bruising and abrasions, he knelt to examine the knee exposed by the ripped trouser leg. He placed his hands on both knees and gently pushed them apart for a better look. He heard Sherlock’s breath hitch and tried not to laugh when he imagined how they must look.

The knees were a bit worse for wear. Two more wipes and one more plaster and John was finished. He stood back up and went to the sink to wash his hands again. “Okay, I’m done. Take some paracetamol. You look like you hit the ground hard and you’re going to feel worse in the morning. We’ll keep an eye on that and you tell me if you start hurting more.”

“ _We_ will?” Sherlock looked at John and held his gaze.

“Problem?” John challenged. “I’m still here, aren’t I?” He sat down at the table across from Sherlock.

“Yes, you are. But why? You’ve not been happy for a while, John. It’s obvious.”

“I’m not unhappy, not really.”

“If you’re happy, John, you’ve been showing it strangely. You get angry over everything when you’re here, but you’re gone just as much. You never want to come on cases anymore.”

“You’ve not exactly been a joy lately either, Sherlock. If you’re not ignoring me, you’re insulting me. I don’t understand why we’re being like this, always arguing, always pushing each other away when it seems pretty damn obvious that’s not what either of us want.” He flexed his hands. “Something’s bound to break and soon.”

Sherlock’s phone moaned.

“Oh for…seriously? Now?” John threw up his hands and started to get up from the table.

“No, don’t run away, John. This is part of the problem, isn’t it? You get on me about how I act, yet you’re just as bad every time Irene Adler’s name comes up. You want to know what she’s texting, don’t you? You’ve been harping on it enough. Fine, satisfy your curiosity.” He swiped at his phone and pushed it across the table towards John. “Here, take it. You can read everything she’s sent.”

John backed off, embarrassed at being called out. “No, no…I don’t need to do that.”

“Of course you do. Then we can both move on. This makes, what, 58 texts? As you’ve so diligently tracked. I want you to read every single one and I want you to count how many times I’ve texted back.”

John picked up the phone. He did want to read everything, of course he did. He also knew it truly wasn’t any of his business what Sherlock and Irene talked about, but he wasn’t about to waste the opportunity. He sucked in his bottom lip as he clicked on the messaging app and almost snorted when he saw that Sherlock had entered in Irene Adler as The Woman, as if she was the only one. To him, she probably was.

The Woman: I’m not hungry, let’s have dinner.

The Woman: Bored in a hotel. Join me. Let’s have dinner.

The Woman: John’s blog is HILARIOUS. I think he likes you more than I do. Let’s have dinner.

The Woman: I saw you in the street today. You didn’t see me.

The Woman: You do know that hat actually suits you, don’t you?

The Woman: Oh for God’s sake. Let’s have dinner.

The Woman: I like your funny hat.

John scrolled through a dozen more and then closed the app, feeling guilty for what he did read. He handed the phone back to Sherlock. “That’s enough, I don’t need to see any more. Nice to know the blog has a distinguished fan, though. She’s right about the hat too.”

“Don't try to be funny. Did you happen to see how many times I responded?”

John was silent.

“John…how many were from me?”

“None, okay? I didn’t see any from you.”

“Precisely. None. And you know I prefer to text. Does that tell you anything?”

John nodded. It did, actually. And now maybe it was time to rustle up some bravery and take a leap off that metaphorical cliff. Mycroft once told him that bravery was the kindest word for stupidity, and maybe he was right. Then again, Mycroft also thought clotted cream went on the scone before the jam, so what did he really know?

John inhaled slowly. “Do you remember that first dinner at Angelo’s when I said it was all fine?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He clearly did.

“Well, it still is.”

Sherlock was silent, but John could practically see the gears spinning in his head. If he was lucky, Sherlock might get there before John embarrassed himself too much.

John took another deep breath and soldiered on. “Did you know tonight’s the winter solstice?”

“Hmmm?” That was apparently not what Sherlock was expecting to hear.

“Yeah, Mrs Hudson reminded me earlier. Winter solstice. It’s the longest night of year, when the earth is farthest from the sun.”

“Ugh, is this about the solar system again?”

“You are never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Nope.” Sherlock dragged out the word.

“Git. It’s the darkest night of the year and it’s supposed to be a time for self-reflection.” He cleared his throat. “To declare your intentions for the coming months.”

“Declaring one’s intentions. That sounds like something out of Mills & Boon.”

John gaped. “How do you remember Mills & Boon when you can’t even remember to clean out the rotting spleen from the crisper drawer?”

“Mrs Hudson is a fan and leaves them around the flat when she cleans. They’re impossible to avoid. Have you seen the covers, John? They’re hideous!”

John snickered. “You’ve read them, haven’t you?”

Sherlock put on a look of mock horror. “I can’t believe you’d accuse me of such banality.”

John laughed out loud and stuck his finger out at him. “Oh, you so have! Don’t you lie to me, Sherlock Holmes.”

“I refuse to incriminate myself.” He grinned back but sobered when he saw John do the same.

“Well, um, winter solstice is also supposed to be a good time to let go of what’s holding you back from what you really want. So, yeah. I, um, I want to do that. Right now.” He flushed.

Sherlock’s eyes widened and John’s cheeks burned even hotter.

“I’m not going to say my relationships were mistakes. I won’t demean them, and I won’t have you do so either. They were all lovely women— “

“John. Not the dog woman.“ 

“Yes, even the dog woman! I mean, the one with the dog! Stop smirking. And don’t interrupt. This is hard enough as it is. I was looking for something I wasn’t going to find with any of them. I think it’s been obvious from the start who my priority is, who my priority has been since that very first day.”

He looked down, no longer able to hold Sherlock’s intense gaze.

“I think, no, I _know_ you’ve been more than patient. You’ve not exactly expressed it as patience, more like an arsehole, but I see it now for what it’s been.”

“Ugh, are you talking about feelings, John? Boring.” His gentle tone belied his words.

“Right. We don’t have to figure it all out tonight, do we?”

“We really don’t.”

John looked up when he heard Sherlock push back from the table. Sherlock beckoned John over with a tip of his head and as always, John went.

“Come here, John.” Sherlock’s voice was low. “Come here.”

John moved slowly around the table and stopped when he got in front of Sherlock, who looked the same combination of resolved and terrified that John himself probably did. For some reason, that loosened the knot growing in his chest since Mycroft’s phone call.

Sherlock stood stock still as John reached up and ran his hand through Sherlock hair, this time not holding in how happy it made him. He stroked down the back of Sherlock’s neck, marveling that he was finally able to touch. He gripped both of Sherlock’s shoulders and squeezed.

“It’s okay, right? This is okay?”

“Yes, more than.” He ran his own hand through John’s hair and down the side of his face.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock nodded and placed his hands low on John’s hips, so lightly that John barely felt them. He lowered his head to John’s shoulder, then turned and pressed his face to the side of John’s neck. His hands tightened and John heard a sharp intake of breath.

“Are you…sniffing me?” John’s heart hammered in his throat.

“Hush, John, I’m having a moment here.”

“A moment, eh? Yeah, me too, Sherlock, me too.”

They clung silently to each other for a while, the only sounds the crackling fire and holiday music in the living room. John pulled Sherlock even closer and felt it would never be close enough. 

Sherlock lifted his head and brushed his nose against John’s. “I’m going to kiss you now, just so you know.”

“It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

Sherlock nodded once more and closed his eyes. He touched his mouth to John’s, so softly at first, once and then twice, three times, harder each time. He hitched a breath and then pressed his face back into John’s neck.

John circled his arms around Sherlock and rubbed his back, overwhelmed in all the best ways. “Mrs Hudson will be disappointed we didn’t do that under her mistletoe.”

Sherlock snorted. “She did seem rather keen for you to show me. Is that also what people do on the solstice?”

“Meet me under the mistletoe and we’ll find out, yeah?” He kissed the side of Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock nuzzled his neck. “Lead the way, John. And…thank you. For telling me.”

John beamed. “Happy Solstice, Sherlock.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Here is the full poem by Josephine Johnson](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?volume=48&issue=5&page=31). Only the first stanza shows up there, so be sure to click on the next page at the link to read the rest of this gorgeous poem!
> 
> While I've seen ASiB more times than I can count, [Ariane Devere's most excellent episode transcripts](https://arianedevere.dreamwidth.org/) always come in handy.


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